Le Monocle de Mon Oncle Wallace Stevens

Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love,
An ancient aspect touching a new mind.
It comes, it
blooms, it bears its fruit and dies.
This trivial trope
reveals a way of truth.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruits
thereof.
Two golden gourds distended on our vines,
Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost,
Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.
We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,
The laughing sky will see the two of us
Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.